Gandae Allyrion
Gandae Allyrion is the young head of the ancient and noble house of Allyrion. Though only 19, she has hard-won lessons ingrained in her from an early age by a heavy-handed monster of a father. Rising to her position only months ago, she has a great deal to learn about the responsibility upon her shoulders, and still has to figure out who she is, after stepping out of the shadows and into the sun. Appearance At a diminutive five feet and change, Gandae is shorter than most Dornish women, and is very well aware of it. Her dark skin and coal thick black hair are traits from her mother, the Lady Riala Allyrion, a salt Dorne, and not from her Andal-looking father. Her hourglass figure is usually dressed in leather armor with skirts, sashes, sleeves to make herself look a little more like a lady. This is all new efforts to her, until now she has been forced to give very little concern to her personal appearance. The brutal training has toned her arms and legs, and there is a litany of scars across her body, mostly avoiding the face and visible areas, but a few occasionally show depending on her outfits. Her hair is usually braided and put up and out of her way, as she's unused to it being so long and is more accustomed to the short bobs she had to wear as a warrior in training. Personality Gandae is heavily stubborn when she decides that she is in the right, though she herself would call it 'determination'. She rarely changes her mind without strong evidence. This is one of the few traits she actually inherited from her father. Despite the fact that the body given to her is very feminine looking, her attitude often comes off as masculine, as she does not curtsy, cannot sew or embroider or paint or any artistic, expected pursuits of ladies. Often very blunt and plain-spoken when not making efforts to sound like a proper high-born, her frank nature can earn friends for honestly as quickly as she loses them for it. Not accustomed to people liking her or wanting to be around, she has difficulty understanding why they would, having not so much poor self-esteem, but has ceased to think of herself as so much of a person with wants and desires, but a vessel for a spirit of vengeance that is now ambling about, trying to play at being a human. This lack of self-esteem is also at work behind her dual pride. She has pride in her people as a whole, in Dorne as a nation, but none in her family name. She has pride in herself as having achieved incredible things, but none in her identity as a person. In this way, Gandae is on average less prideful than the stereotypical Dorne, but might come out with sword in hand if assailed. Anchoring her every action, her every choice and at the core of her being, is an rage which could swallow the sun itself. Born from an entire childhood and adolescence of abuse in every way, this fury has long since burned out its heat, leaving an icy wasteland in its wake. Gandae does not run hot with injustice, she seethes with frigid venom. She tries to keep this under wraps, and tries to appear as amiable and gracious as ever a lady should seem. But when it is pricked, she is winter itself, and winter takes no prisoners. She's also reckless and chaotic on the battlefield, the joy of bloodlust was the only permitted for her, and it's the only way to release energy that doesn't give her unease. She does not care if she lives or dies, only that her enemy perishes. This recklessness is odd when matched with her paranoia, as she's constantly watching other's faces and hands, every wall of the room, for where the danger is coming from. At least in a battle, the sides are clear. Outside of that, she is sure that everyone has ulterior motives, everyone wants to make her a caged bird again, everyone wants to use her for something. History Early Life The daughter of great warriors, there was a high expectation on Gandae to be as tough as the stone that their house sat upon. This expectation was disappointed for a great deal of the child's upbringing, as she was far more keen to weave flower crowns for her trainers than trying to wield a sword. Her father decided that this weakness was not only from the blood of her mother, a bastard salt Dorne, but could also be beaten out of her. Gandae wore at least one handprint or bruise on her from the age of five to the age of seventeen, when she grabbed his wrist and flung him across the floor, a knife at his throat. She had seen this man press a thumb to her trachea, listening to the wheeze of a child struggling for life, and laughed at the pathetic scrabble of tiny hands against his grip. She had felt the sting of a hand across her face when she dared say a word against how he treated her mothe.r. And she’d felt a press against her mouth, heard the words You might as well be good for something, and a bitter taste. There was nothing within her that wanted this man to live. Her fury easily could have ended his reign there, and she could have had the sweet taste of revenge and gone to her death with a light heart. If she could die knowing that the monster who had caged her went before her, all would be well. But her mother would not survive watching a child of hers be executed, so she let the man live that day. With each lash from the guards who had beaten her when her father was too busy, she remained still, as she always did. She took the slices to her flesh, each impact with silence. Her time would come. The Lord of Godsgrace was pleased to have finally succeeded in shaping this soft nothing into a warrior, fit to serve as a shield to Nymeria herself, and smiled at her. Though Gandae was hauled away by the guards and beaten bloody for daring to threaten her father's life, he was proud. She had then become one of the favored children, and given greater chances to serve and show her valor. But Gandae herself spoke little, until the man passed away but three months ago, a fever. And while it was a fever, it was not so much an accident, It was made in a chance encounter with a man who might have been a maester in a former life. He clasped her hand in his and said that her blood had fire, not of dragons or forges, but of the sun. it was a shame to try and cage the sun. A hand could not hold such a thing. But if she was willing to fall in the fire, she could free herself. But she had to have faith that she could survive it. He gave her a vial. No needle, no slipped powder into a cup, no blade to cut. A simple vial. It was not a poison, that would be far too easily known in a kingdom of snakes. She was to dab it along her hairline when her father was watching, and ask if he wished to try the oil, and give it to him. It would be a while, but eventually he would use it when out in the sun. The sunburn would be blistering, crippling even. And in his weakness, she could strike. If she was burned, if she was afflicted, she would only be able to pray to survive. As she dabbed her own burns with ointment, she did not pray to a god that they would heal. The gods did not listen to the broken or the damned, why should she ask for them to hear her in her triumph? The old man lied in bed, skin blistered and swollen, groaning in pain. A scrap of cloth from a dying man’s cloak could dab at the weeping sores on his face, with a smile like an asp’s on her face. He was laid too low by his wounds to survive the fire that burned him from within. Since the moment he last drew breath, the sullen, stoic faces of both his wife and daughter have come alive, and the quiet mouth of Gandae had plenty to say, when her war hammer wasn't saying it for her. Lady of Godsgrace be added Category:RP Characters